


Bookends

by UndergroundWall



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-06-28 18:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundWall/pseuds/UndergroundWall
Summary: Compendium of some very short OS that I could write for the Goovythinggoin livejournal community.





	1. So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Serre-livres](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818445) by [UndergroundWall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundWall/pseuds/UndergroundWall). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/132307.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Summary:** Artie returns from Mexico and Paul wrote him a song.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

"Well, since you came back ... If you don’t mind, I have a song for you."  
This is not what Art expected. He was coming back for the first time since two months to New York, and he thought he was going to find a furious Paul. Especially after the dramatic scene of the last time.

The album was falling behind. It was probably his fault. So Paul had to temper himself and work hard so that they could record as soon as he returned from Mexico.

"Thank you... so let's go."  
Paul turned to him. "Do not thank me too fast, you will not like it."  
Art caught the remark and bit his lips to not answer. It's true that lately, he had criticized what Paul was composing. They had quarreled over The Only Living Boy in New York last time, and Art had reluctantly recorded the choruses.

He took in hand the score Paul was giving him, and began to decipher it. As he read, he clung more and more to the leaf, and he was shaking more and more.

"But what's up with you?" It's not a song I can sing.  
-The harmonies are provided for your voice.  
-That’s not the problem! I can’t sing a song that is addressed to me personally."  
Now that he had said the depths of his thought, the tension dropped.  
"Anyone who knows us will understand that it is a message from you to me. You chasing me. I thought you had been thinking since last time.  
-Oh yes, I thought!" Suddenly burst out the smallest. "I thought, saying that we continue as before. And you didn’t come back. And the more I thought about it, the more I said..." he sighed, "That I had already lost you."

Art deposited the score. "Then why are you asking me to say goodbye to myself, why don’t you sing that yourself?"  
Paul picked up the paper and stared at it for a few moments.  
"These words are so hard, I could break myself in singing, they would become real, and I should say so long to you."

Artie turned around. "It's real, Paul, we will not be singing together after this album, we can not stand each other's presence. Get ready to record, I will not sing it a second time."

Paul rushed to the devices. No sound engineer was present so late, but fortunately he knew how to use them.

The taller stood in front of the microphone, and Paul threw the music into the helmet that rested on his curly hair.

The first notes went up. It was even more beautiful than usual. Paul thought something had changed: he had never heard his friend's voice so hot, even when they spent their nights together, between two of his love stories.

The distance of Artie had allowed her to meet a good woman, with whom he was planning to share his life. Oh, she understood, and that's why she encouraged Paul to start a solo career and move away from the other singer. But before, he wanted to give Art his farewell gift. The most beautiful songs for the most beautiful voice. The Bridge was the pinnacle of their relationship, the diamond laid on their two talents melted into one talent.

Art could not stand he was getting married, whereas he had always agreed to share Paul with the women. They had moved further away.  
And that's how childhood loves are broken.

And here he is facing him, provoking, tempting him one last time. Singing these words of farewell by looking him in the eyes. He could not look away. He added his own voice, and it seemed to him full of bitterness.

Art finished the song alone. When the last notes fell silent, Paul knew that his friend could have asked him anything, fuck around there, in the recording studio, to leave his wife, to go with him on Mars, he would have done immediately.

But Art did not ask anything. He rested the helmet calmly and walked out of the studio. It was finished.  
So Long, architect of my young days.


	2. Charts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/132357.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Summary:** Tonight they’re listening to the radio.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

Paul's lips were suddenly empty. Someone had taken his cigarette (or any other substance, in any case it was rolling and smoking).

He opened his eyes. Maybe Art had thought he had fallen asleep and that for that, he had preferred to warn him of any risk of getting burned. But his friend had not turned off anything at all, and he was the one who was taking a few puffs with a happy smile

"Hey ... give me my cigarette.

-Wait, listen. "

The song ended. They were listening to a program that announced the biggest sales of the week. Maybe he had fallen asleep there, driving his car parked at a street corner of New York City, because he did not remember hearing the beginning of the song.

"And it was number 2 of the charts... with a nice break this week!" sputtered the speakers. "But now it's the big surprise... A meteoric rise in the charts with this duet that no one expecting: The Sound of Silence, by Simon and Garfunkel!"

The first notes of electric guitar went up. Paul's bitterness had diminished about this change, giving way to a great weariness. We had just asked them for a new album, to record as soon as possible, to surf on the success of their truncated song.

The producer had told him that they could re-record some of the Songbook. Paul had jumped at the chance. Promised, the next album will be more successful.

The song was following his court, and tomorrow they would do more sales, that's obvious. On the last notes, Art breaks the silence.

"I'm sure these two smart guys have to have a good time, with their song at the top ..."

Paul laughed at first, startled by the shocked reflection of his friend, who had been struck in the most serious manner in the world, then with real joy.

"Ahaha ... That's for sure, they have to be celebrating it by drinking champagne and seduce girls. Hey, hi girls, i’m Simon, you know, Simon and Garfunkel?"

The sweet laugh of his friend came to join his. If a passerby had ventured into this street so late, they could have seen two young men giggled in a stationary car.

When they had calmed down, Art took Paul's hand. "It's not too late to celebrate, we only have to drive to Broadway ...

-I would not want to be anywhere other than in this car with you. "

It was true, and Paul himself found himself confessing it so lightly. He took the hand of his friend. His blue eyes shone by the light of the street lamps, and to hide his confusion, Paul relaxed his embrace and took a new cigarette.


	3. Pencil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/134893.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Summary:** Artie draw a lot. Inspired by a sentence of Sarah (in french: "Ton crayon deviens presque la prolongation d'une caresse").  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

I nibble the tip of my pencil. It's pure imitation, because it's a habit that Paul has when working on a text.  
You cannot live so long side by side without ending up looking a little alike, even though we are as different as day and night.  
The sun is just one more star, closer and brighter, certainly, but it's still a star.  
Paul shines. He is closer to people, warming the world with his talent. I am more discreet, but I shine anyway.  
Some days, when things go wrong, I refuse to compare myself to a star. I see myself more like the moon, shining only in the light of Paul.  
  
Today, that's fine. We are both biting our pencils. He write, I calculate. My particular student gave me a really bad worksheet, and I'm preparing explanations for the next class.  
Kathy is at her parents' house. I know they had another argument yesterday. So, selfishly, today, everything is fine for me.  
I love Kathy. Paul deserves to have such a great girlfriend. My feelings are just petty. But today, I have it all for myself.  
Tomorrow, I would hate myself. Nevermind.  
  
My mind wanders far, far away from parabolas and cosines. My pencil drifts in the same direction, sketching, here, the line of an eyebrow, or there, the curvature of a chin.  
Paul appears under my fingers. His image is faithful to what I see, except for a detail.  
The Paul of graphite and paper smile to me. For a short moment, I have it, and my pencil becomes almost the extension of a caress.  
That's fool. I could never really caress him. I don't have permission.  
  
With an annoyed gesture, I crumple the sheet and send the paper ball to the basket. It distracts him for a few moments, then he goes back to his text.  
  
It seems to me even more distant than before.


	4. Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/134893.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Summary:** Before the concert in Central Park, there's a discussion. Almost a negotiation.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

  
"Pitiful."  
He slammed this little word by slamming the sheets of paper on the table in front of him. I jump, surprised. I was immersed in my thoughts until then.  
  
"I beg your pardon?  
-These texts, there. Who dared to commit such dripping horrors? "  
I feel my cheeks blush violently. Calm down, Art. You are no longer 20, you are no longer a duo, he has nothing to impose on you.  
"These are not your onions.  
-A Heart in New York is ok. In a pinch, In Cars. You can sing that one at the concert, if you want.  
-I need your permission?  
-Yes.  
-In this case, ask me permission for Kodachrome. Or 50 ways. Or The late great ... "  
He has that little smile that I hate and adore at the same time. "Dare to say that one of them is bad.  
-I never said that. But it's unbalanced. We have our songs together, you have several solo, and me, only one. "  
  
This time, Paul doesn't smile anymore. He looks at the side, the look he has when he thinks.  
  
"Actually, I wanted to ask you ... to sing with me on some songs."  
Oh, deceitful. These songs are great, and of course, I'd love to, but ... It's a matter of pride.  
"Oh yes, which one?" No, it was not what I planned to answer. I had to categorically refuse.  
"I was thinking of Me and Julio, of course.  
Hum.  
"Remembering the good old days."  
I blush again. It's not anger.  
  
"Okay." Why do I accept so easily? Wait, fool, put a condition. "But only if you sing on one of my songs, on the next album.  
-In cars?  
-How did you guess?  
-I'm pretty sure you wrote it down, or at least suggested some sentences to one of your little... bad writer."  
Touché. He has not finished, but looks away to continue his sentence.  
"Everything was true ... as you say so well.  
-Everything is always true to me, Paul."  
He closes his eyes. His whole body is stretched towards me, as if he hesitated.  
"I know." He puts a brief kiss on my lips. "But I can't give you anything, that's why I avoid seeing you.  
-The guilt?  
-Desire. I don't have the permission."  
We have already had this conversation so many times. I know exactly what to do to make it turn, even very slightly, to my advantage.  
  
"I'm not asking you for anything more."  
  
And I hold out my hand. He takes it gently and puts his lips on it.  
I won one more night. A little more Paul in my life. At this point, a little more is already so much.


	5. At last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/133906.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:** There was a night of work, there was a morning of tenderness.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

I'm looking through the window. Further down, in the street, there are people passing by, cars stopping at the traffic lights, merchants present their vegetables. Nothing more than the usual monotony of this street, in fact.  
Then, crossing the world, a light. She is embodied in a tall boy with blond and curly hair. I know he's coming to my house. Everything seems a lot less monotonous.  
He smiles to the heavens. He looks towards them, but it's my eyes he's hooking on. I give him a little sign, as if to say, "Wait, I’ll open to you."  
His smile is even wider. His eyes are overflowing with joy.  
  
"Hey, I'm glad to see you.  
-Paul! "  
In an instant, I'm in his arms. All the joy, kindness, honesty and tenderness he has for me, he manages to communicate them to me in this embrace. My shoulders relax. I did not notice they were tense.  
When we separate, I close the door behind him and we walk together to the living room.  
  
"You wanted to see me?"  
He walks backwards in the hallway. I make sure he doesn’t stumble, but he is very agile.  
"Yes ... I wrote a new song." His smile is communicative, and he comes to paint on my face as well. "I hope you'll like it.  
-So, go ahead, play it to me! "  
Art sit in the big sofa. He spreads his long legs and leans against the armrest, ready to listen to me. I grabbed my guitar and sang to him a rhythmic song, very short but, I think, cute.  
  
"Feelin' groovy, I like it.  
-In fact, it's called The 59th street bridge song.  
"I could not have guessed." He laughs softly, "Are you going to teach me? I can already hear how the song could give. "  
I don’t expect less from him.  
We spend part of the afternoon to harmonize. Around 5 pm, we go out for a drink on the terrace before returning for a new rehearsal session - both news and old songs.  
  
He ended up falling asleep in the hollow of my bed. I don’t want to dislodge him.  
  
When we wake up together in the early morning, I admire a possibility that my mind had never scratched. In another world, at another time, the fact that I love him would not be a problem. My desire for him would not be pointed out. I could wake up every morning at his side, and that would not bother anyone.  
I know very well that's what Art wants too. The look he gives me sometimes lets me see, but he will not dare anything. I would almost come to hate him, to hate his presence, which is doing me so good and torturing me at the same time.  
  
He is there, stretching like a cat, in my white sheets. He'll leave a curly blond hair on the pillow, and I'll smell his scent for days.  
Finally, the words that were stuck in the back of my throat finally come out.  
"Do you want some coffee?"  
A yawn. "Um, yes."  
  
All to leave the bed as soon as possible. I jumped out of the room and start the coffee pot. As the coffee passes, I try to calm myself down. I'm waiting for him to come out of the room. Two cups are waiting for us on the work plan.  
I serve coffee, with a little milk for me, black for him. I know his tastes. If he wanted to, if the universe wanted, I would know everything about him.  
  
As he doesn’t come, I take both cups in each hand - ah, it's hot! - and I'll carry them to the room. He did not go back to sleep, he reads a magazine, quietly.  
Wait a minute. I do not leave a magazine in my room? Unless...  
I almost spill the coffee. He found my collection of Bizarre (note of the author: it is about a magazine of bondage of the 40’s-50’s, with the particularly refined drawings. It’s beautiful even you’re not specially attracted by bdsm)! I bought them from a bookstaller. Since I had read one, very young (it must have belonged to my father, I suppose), I was fascinated by this magazine. They were difficult to find, not edited for almost twenty years and often censored or damaged.  
"Uh ... Art?  
-That's it. I've never seen that. I want such shoes. "  
I do not even dare to see what he's talking about. Knowing the drawing talents of John Willie and the kind of shoes he could draw, it must have been annoying.  
"Where did you get that, Paul? There are pictures of Bettie Page that I had never seen before.  
-Grumbl... Second hand.  
-Considering the date, I suspect. I just love it."  
  
He read with great interest. He was serious. I decide to be too.  
"What shoes, by the way?"  
He opens the pages of the magazine in front of me. Ballet boots, of course. I swallowed. Me too, I love these shoes. For a moment, I imagine Art wearing them, growing even more, his movements still so assured being clumsy...  
If he stumbled, I could catch him.  
  
"Is it bought somewhere?  
-I guess you have to make them tailor made. I do not know, actually." Then, I smile and I ask, a little by bravado: "And what would you do with it? Which of your girlfriends would agree to wear them?  
-It would be for me." He laughs and hides behind the magazine, I can see only his curly hair overtaking. "Or for you. You could almost reach my height, with that."  
My face must have colored very deep red. As he dares to remove the magazine from his face, I see that his is as scarlet as mine. Our eyes meet, he becomes paler and looks upset.  
"Excuse me, I was joking.  
-... Okay."  
I must look disappointed. He looks at me, tries to understand.  
"Paul ..."  
  
One of us must ... dare something. I have to try. But when I'm close to the edge, I'm so scared.  
If he rejects me, I will not recover. If the world condemns us ... If my parents learn it ...  
If he loves me, I could face that, I think.  
  
Art has almost finished his coffee. He no longer expects an answer from me, puts down his cup and the magazine, and gets ready to get out of bed.  
He is barely standing up as I cross the bed to get closer. In a hurry, I fall just at the feet of my friend. Looking up at him, I'm dizzy - he's so tall. He dominates me entirely.  
  
"Paul, how are you?" And he leans toward me, reaching out to lift me up. I grab his hands, but I'm hanging on. I don’t want to leave the ground.  
"Art, please ..." He swallowed. I think he fears what's going on, even if he wanted it deep inside him. "Artie, what should I do?  
"What are you talking about?" He spoke too fast, he wants to avoid the conversation.  
"What must I do to belong to you?"  
  
It is he who puts himself at my height. "I don’t want you to belong to me, Paul, you are to yourself, and you are free.  
-What must I do for you to love me? For us to dare ... to be ... "  
  
But my heart has already invaded my throat. It prevents me from speaking, and tears come to my eyes. I prostrate myself even more, lowering myself lower, totally on the ground. Are you going to understand, Artie? I’m already yours. I would surrender totally, if you want.  
He got up, and I do not dare to look up. I hear his footsteps moving away. He will leave. I do not have the strength to run after him. I really ruined everything.  
  
Yet his footsteps farther down the hallway suddenly seem to come closer again. He comes back almost running. I see him melt on me. In an instant, I got up on the bed, flat on my stomach, and my arms tied behind my back, and my legs shackled, all with scotch tape.  
Normally, Art would not have the strength to compete with me, but I gave up. Ok, if that's what you want, take, I give it to you.  
  
It freezes. What? I spoke aloud. I feel a weight right next to me on the mattress, and I turn my head to one side. He is lying parallel to me, on the back. He hides his face in his hands.  
"Art...  
-It is not fair.  
"Whatever you want, Artie.  
-No. I also want to know what you want. Because ..." but he sobs, he let himself be overwhelmed by his own desire and feels the repercussion. "Because what you want is as important as what I want. And if we want the same thing, it will be ..." He sighs and ends in a breath: "Magic. "  
Now, I tremble as much as his voice. "So let's see that together, okay?"  
As gently as he was rude a few minutes ago, Art detaches me. Here I am free of my movements, and the first thing I do is stroking his face. His eyes remain open as if he did not want to lose any crumbs, however, it’s me he fixes.  
  
"You're looking at me.  
-You are my whole universe. There’s only you, Paul. "  
I know right now that we want the same thing. He nibbles his lower lip, which makes me crack. We both move at the same time through the space that separates us, and our lips finally join.  
  
That's exactly where I need to be.  
  
His lips are as sweet as I imagined. For his part, he also does not look disappointed, and I can feel his smile on my own lips.  
And his laughter deep in his throat. A laugh of pure joy, which runs through me too.  
His hands are already close to my skin. He gets rid of my clothes so easily while I shake when I want to undo his shirt. He helps me with the buttons, and our two skins are one.  
I have been waiting for this for years. Just him and me, a bed, that's all. And if anyone has anything to say again, too bad.  
  
He whispers something to me. I don’t understand.  
"What?  
-I don’t want to go too fast." He stuffs his face in my neck. "You are so beautiful."  
The emotion overwhelms him so much that I feel his tears fall on my body. I put my hands in his hair. "I trust you.  
-I love you."  
It took courage to say that. The first step is mine, I offered him my body, but he is offering me his heart. He adds, very gently: "You do not need to do anything for me to love you, I love you without any conditions.  
-I love you too. And I want to do so much with you." Kisses in his hair, in his neck. His smell, I'd die.  
  
"Tell me."  
I do not tell him anything, I just give him my wrists together. He immediately understands and resume the tape. I like to be attached, and I tried to find myself in this position with all the girls I knew, but without success. They didn’t really like it.  
He squeezes well. I would not tell him unless it's really too painful or too dangerous. He would realize it, besides.  
I demand his kisses, to reassure me, to make sure of his tenderness. Compared to earlier, his movements are wilder, his lips are more hungry.  
  
My hands are joined as if in prayer in front of me, and he needs only a slight impulse to tip me on his back. He is above me, and I feel completely submissive. I want him to desire me, and to feel as strong as his desire is heady..  
I spread my legs. He sees an invitation, and puts his fingers on my lips. None of us breaks the silence, and my tongue licks its index, then the other fingers. When they are wet, he starts the preparation.  
Obviously I had already tried. But to be attached, to be able to do nothing, to be totally at his mercy, that's very different. I tend to dominate in relationships, when I work, I often impose my wishes. To abandon myself brings me an inexplicable relaxation. Suddenly, I don’t need to control everything anymore. Art take the reins, and I let myself be guided.  
  
It takes a lot of confidence to reach this state.  
  
I can’t help but moan, but I tighten my lips so that it does not get along too much. It makes him laugh. It's not a mockery, just his sweet and sincere laugh, the laugh of happiness.  
"Artie ..."  
I can’t handle it anymore. When I pronounce his name, he removes his fingers immediately, and take my thighs in his hands before lifting me slightly from the bed. I hold my breath, and he does the same.  
  
I'm sure if we checked, our heartbeat would be synchronized.  
  
Intense pain is tearing me away and make me scream. It freezes.  
"S ... Sorry, Paul? Paul?  
-I'm fine..." I'm breathing again. "Continue. Please.  
-But you suffer ... "  
  
I would like to yell at him, tell him not to let go, but he rested my legs on the mattress, and my body has no strength left.  
  
"Please ... try again.  
-I ... I ..." he stutters, "only if you're not attached. So that you can push me back if isn’t right."  
  
I do not need to think long. I know he needs reassurance, and that kind of thing can be done later. We still have so much to discover each other.  
  
"Ok, you can cut the scotch tape."  
His hand trembles while holding the scissors. When my hands are free, I grab his and kiss them, one after the other. "Trust me."  
  
He nods, and we resume this position. Thanks to my free arms, I arch a little more, which avoids me a little pain, and I pay attention to stop me from screaming again.  
The pleasure that follows is almost more intense than the pain. Almost. But Art's breathing in my neck, the warmth of his skin, his whole body moving on me and in me, make up for this small difference dramatically.  
  
Yes, it's magic, and the pleasure is gaining more and more ground. I allow myself to loosen the lips, and they are cries of pleasure that come out, this time.  
I am dying. It's the impression that gives me. This subtle mix of pleasure and suffering, between abandonment and being alive to the extreme.  
When I get back into the real world, I'm sticky, and a heavyweight weighs on my chest. As a reflex, I take his body in my arms and I squeeze hard. I want to hang on to him, so he stays. He raises his head, and his eyes hesitate between pleasure and worry, between joy and sadness.  
  
I hasten to kiss him to dispel his doubts. His forehead relaxes, his smile reappears, and he kisses me back. I take the blankets to cover us, and he snuggles up against me.  
  
The sun is a little brighter in the sky this morning. And my coffee has cooled.


	6. Five times they didn't need to use the safeword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And once they needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/134448.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:** This is the sequel of At Last. It's better to read it before. The first five texts show a BDSM relationship. In the last text, it skips and it's not BDSM, but an unhealthy relationship. Thank you for thinking about it by reading the texts.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

**1.**  
Communication is essential if we want to carry out this kind of relationship. I think we communicate constantly, and we don’t even need to say things - which is dangerous. That's why I imposed a safeword. We decided together.  
The next day, what I had ordered arrived. I had not told Artie, I preferred to surprise him. To carry out this little thing, I had stolen a pair of shoes when I visited him ... And he didn't realize it. In any case, he didn't react when they reappeared in his entrance.  
It was with a large enough box that I left the shoemaker. He wasn't a shoemaker like any other, and he was used to special orders. It was expensive, it's true, but when I held it in my hand, I really thought it was worth it.  
I couldn’t resist, I ran to his apartment after having recovered. He didn't expect me especially, and I could see in his face that he had slept late. There was still a trace of his pillow printed on his cheek.  
"Hey, Paul, how are you?  
-Great. I bought you something.  
-Oh?"  
Curious, he looked in the big paper bag. There lives only a neutral box.  
"What is it?  
-You'll see..."  
To put him in the mood, I start to flirt nicely with him. And I feel like it works ... Oh, he likes the game of seduction, it's true.  
So we are kissing on the living room couch when he breaks our embrace.  
"Paul, I'd like to know ..."

  
I'm laughing softly. His pout is that of a child who wants to know what Santa will bring him.  
"Patience ... wait for me in the room."  
I'm going to look for the bag in the entrance and I hear it laugh from here. He’s always happy when I’m seductive. I undo the box to remove a pair of beautiful Ballet Boots, made to its size.  
When I arrive in the room, I try to hide them in my back and I laugh in advance. I can't wait to see his face.  
He is waiting for me on the bed, completely naked. Delicious.  
"Look what I have for you ..."  
He stifles a cry of surprise and (I think) of ecstasy.  
"Oh, Paul, it's really ...  
-They should be at your height. If you agree..."  
I give him a hand for him to try. When he tries to untie them without success, I help him.  
There they are at his feet, and I tighten the shoelaces well. It's beautiful, the heel is huge (as high as the size of his outstretched foot, which is pretty much his size) and it suits him perfectly.  
"I would never know how to walk with that.  
-It's not the goal, but..." I give him a naughty smile. "We can try."  
I get up and hold out my hands. He seizes them and gets up too. He stifles a cry.  
"Ouch ...  
-It's painful?"

  
His jaw is tense, but his eyes are shining. "Yes.  
-You remember what we discussed yesterday.  
-It's good, it's okay for now.  
He is tallness. He still gained between ten and fifteen centimeters and my face comes to his chest. I take the opportunity to nibble his nipples, but I don't give up. He is much too unstable.  
We will see how long it can hold.  
"I love it, Paul." I raise my head to see his expression. Oh yes. He loves it.  
"Um, so, who should be thanked?"  
I rock it on the bed and spread his legs. His eyes are flamboyant.  
  
  
**2.**  
"Yum."  
My eyes are blindfolded, my hands are tied to the bars of the bed, and Art puts things down all the way down my chest.  
"What is it, Artie?  
-Chuuut ..." He continues to drop some.  
"But it smells like chocolate.  
-HM hm. These are Belgian chocolate. "

  
Wait a minute. I'm really not interested in playing with food. I'm not embarrassed to tell him.  
"Don't worry, I'm not going to do messy things or anything ...  
-But I'm worried ...  
-Let me try. You know what to do to stop everything. "  
I’m an instant tempted to use our safeword, but before, I give him a chance. If it really disgusts me, then ...  
The smell of chocolate floods my nostrils. I hear a noise that I know ... Oh. He must be putting his tongue on his lips. Just hear it, my excitement goes up.  
"Oh, well, you like it anyway."  
It's you that pleases me, idiot.  
I'm shivering. It's his lips on my sternum that catch the first praline taking care to caress my skin. It's wet, it's excruciatingly sexy.  
His teeth are crunching chocolate. Okay, that's probably way better than I feared.  
I can't do anything, anyway, I'm at his mercy. I let him eat his chocolates, but ... once the surprise is over, it's not so exciting anymore.  
"Are you all right, Paul?  
-I ... please ... "

  
He does not stop everything, but immediately understand how I feel. He sweeps away the remaining chocolates, and a weight is removed from my chest. "Are you okay?  
-Yes thanks...  
-But you know, I'm still hungry. "  
I don't need to see his face to guess his naughty smile ... which does not prevent me from being surprised when he comes to surround my member with his lips.  
Oh, yes, he was hungry. It applies really well, insisting a bit while I'm slow to come.  
After, his kisses have a taste of chocolate... and another taste.

  
**3.**  
I'm starting to know him well. He who makes it work is pain. Me, it's the restriction. He appreciates the restriction as much as I do the pain, but if I want him up, I know exactly how to hurt him.  
The room is prepared. In fact, today, we will not approach the bed, certainly not the fabric. I put an old foam map on the floor, returned, I prepared some bowls, a lighter, candles and what to bandage the eyes. I hide everything in a box.  
It's really going to hurt. I tried on my hands, and for me, it's too painful. I was careful to take wax that liquefies at low temperatures, but it's still quite extreme. I have been preparing everything for several days and I hope it will be fine.

  
The evening follows its course, and we have a good time together. When he follows me in the room, I see him very surprised.  
"What did you prepare? Looks like it's complicated."  
I turn to answer him right in the eyes. I'm smiling assured, because I want him to feel safe. "Do you trust me? and you know that if it's not okay ...  
"Of course." My heart leaped into my chest and I reached out my hand.  
He balked a little for the blindfold, but I insisted that the surprise would be more fun like that. He lay on the floor and wait. I feel very tense, and I gently caress his hand while I check one last time if there is nothing potentially flammable near us.  
This is the moment, his breathing has subsided, everything is in place. I operate the lighter and light the candle over a bowl. I hold it to control the drop of wax drops, and when everything is good, I bring the whole above his belly and I remove the bowl.  
"Wait, what ...  
-The wax of candles.  
-Oh ... you remember ... "

  
Ah! That's where my idea came from. It's something Artie told me a long time ago. He had told me that as a child in the synagogue, he loved to hold candles during prayers because the wax were running on his fingers.  
I had to keep this somewhere in my subconscious.  
I let the wax flow gently, a few drops here, others there ... I try his chest carefully avoiding the nipples.  
Because of a sudden movement, a drop falls in the hollow of his neck.  
"Not the face!  
-I didn't do it on purpose, sorry! I will move it away. "  
His breathing was shorter. "It's okay?  
-Yes, but...  
-Tell me.  
-It's going to be too much ... "

  
Okay. I drop a few extra drops before putting a bowl down. I blow on the flame.  
The wax has dried on his body and forms a strange map. I want to show him, so I undid his blindfold.  
"T... Thank you, it was perfect."  
He trembles, nevertheless. He's still shaking when he looks down at his chest.  
"I'll have to take a shower.  
-It is better to take off the wax before, actually. "  
I start to remove each dried drop with my nails. In some places, several drops form plates. I squeeze a little closer to him, taking care to surround him with my other arm.  
He needs it.

  
**4.**  
He looks so proud of his purchase. Once at the apartment, he hastens to unpack it to show me.  
"It's for you.  
-... I didn't know that my mental state had deteriorated to this point.  
-Oh, Paul! I know very well that you love being restricted. It's really the best.  
-Ah it's sure that a camisole ... "His smile breaks down ... Very quickly, I try to catch up with me ..." ... It's really the best. Or did you find that? "  
His pride came back and he tells me how he managed to get in touch with a nurse who kindly provided him with cash.

  
Now, I really want to try it, and I tell it to him. It looks like a child in front of a candy store, and I smile at so much enthusiasm.  
He takes my hand so gently to train me to the room that I can't help but feel good.  
My feeling of comfort explodes when he puts on my camisole. He squeezes my arms so hard that my breath is cut off for a few moments, but it comes back without any problem when he sits comfortably on the mattress. Here I am, all wrapped up, pampered by this boy whom I love so much ...  
He kisses me tenderly. "Wait, I'll be right back." I don't even have time to protest that he has already passed the doorway. But where is he going?

  
Is he going to leave me alone? Of course not. But it takes time to come back. And if he has an accident? If he falls, if he has discomfort while I am tied here? Nobody would pick me up for days, and it's my decomposing corpse that...  
I hyperventilating. Artie had never left me alone in this kind of situation, so I didn't know that it could worry me so much. When his blonde head emerges from the corridor, I'm not calmed.  
"I found lubri... Paul!"  
  
He quickly puts the bottle and rushes on me to detach me.  
"What happened? You have trouble breathing?" He inspects me on all the seams, rubs my arms to circulate the blood. I am detached, he reacted in time, but my mind is still not calm.  
I can't explain to him the feeling of pure abandonment that I felt.

  
**5.**  
The abandonment ... It's been two months since he was in Mexico for his damn movie. He'll be back for a few days? I don't care!  
But obviously, when he is there, everything is illuminated. I really can't resist to Artie. I may be the one who commands in the work, but he submits me totally with a single smile.  
So Art smiles at me, Art flirts nicely. He has tanned, he smells of summer, and I follow him to his apartment. What else could I have done?

  
My only honor is to get back on top. If he wants me, it's me who dominates.  
While taking a shower (after such a long trip, it must be very relaxing), I dig into his business. I am looking for something that we use often. That's what I want today.  
When he comes out, only wearing a towel around his waist, I wait for him fully dressed on the bed and carry a whip.

  
"Oh-oh, interesting!" He drops the towel and walks over to me like a cat, squinting.  
I catch him by the hair, a little too violently perhaps, and throw him on the bed. He is on his knees and arches, graciously offering me his butt that I hasten to strike with whip.  
The first shots are a little rough, then I become more supple, as if my resentment calmed down, leaving for desire, which is still a more reasonable feeling in this situation. I wanted to push him to the end, to make him scream our word, but I didn't have the courage.  
The love we make is wild, almost exotic. I was hungry to be near him.  
After all that, I look out the window at the sun set over New York. I smell the Artie's cigarette, and it makes me look to him.  
"By the way, I'm going to marry Peggy very soon, do you think you can leave the film set long enough to come?"  
The room is tinged with red. Artie, even with his tan, even with the light, seems paler than he has ever been.

  
**5 + 1.**  
Someone is drumming the front door. I look at the time, it is half past midnight anyway, I do not sleep but ... I guess isn’t Peggy, she must still stay a day at his parents. I am going to open.  
  
Art leaped into the apartment like an angry animal. We haven’t spoken since the end of the promotion of the album.  
  
"So, apparently, you played me a bad trick?"  
  
I look at him without understanding. I have not done anything these last days that can really provoke his anger.  
  
"I beg your pardon?  
-The song! So long ... What a good joke, isn’t it?  
-What?  
"That song doesn’t talk about Frank Lloyd Wright at all!"  
  
I fall from the clouds. I had not imagined he had not grasped the subtlety so far. Then I realize that for Artie's certainly intelligent, but Cartesian mind, the message may not have been so clear ...  
  
"Oh, Artie, you just understood ..." I can not hold back a nervous laugh. "It's so sweet..."  
  
But he's furious, and that's a lot less adorable.  
  
"Seriously Artie ... It was obvious ...  
-Shut up."  
  
He throws himself on me, and I cross my arms to protect myself ... but he does not hit me. Instead, he catches me by the collar and pulls me towards the room.  
  
He knows where I hide my things. Even Peggy doesn’t know. It's been months and months that I have not untied the ropes. He seized the longest ones, those planned for the shibari.  
  
"What do you want to do, it's all over, it's even you who told me..." I know what to do to hurt him, don’t forget. "You told me at the wedding."  
  
"Shut up, really."  
  
He propels me on the bed. To believe that he retained all his strength for all these years? Or that anger allows him to release?  
  
Very quickly, I find myself with my hands tied behind my back. Nothing extraordinary, except that it really squeezed very hard, and very quickly, my hands fall asleep.  
  
It's not good.  
  
He passed the rope through a ceiling hook that I had installed specially for that. But he's not used to ropes, I'm really scared.  
  
"Uh ... Artie, I know it's not okay, but maybe we could talk?"  
  
I have not even finished my sentence that I am raised from the bed and that I find myself suspended at arm's length. They are crooked and hurt me terribly.  
  
"Art, it's very painful ... please."  
  
I try to catch his eye. When I have it, I realize that it will not detach me easily.  
  
"Ok! Parkbench!"  
  
No reaction.  
  
"Parkbench, you know, the safeword.  
-It's true ... This famous parkbench where we'll be sitting one day, old and always friends? But you betrayed that, didn’t? "  
  
My arms fall asleep at their turns. The pain becomes barely bearable, and I really panic.  
  
"Artie... pity..." I have trouble breathing. "I beg you... detach me..."  
  
I could still hold on my toes ... but not there. He pulled the rope up a little more. Each muscle gives me the impression that my arms are going to tear.  
  
"Art! My hands! They will break! PARKBENCH!"  
  
But he still does not react. That’s not a game this time.  
  
He leaves the room. I try to listen, to know where he is going, but I hear only heartbeat in my ears. If I could panic even more, I would do it.  
  
Now, I scream, without worrying about the neighbors. I cry, I cry, I beg him to stay.  
  
If he must kill me, let me die of suffocation under my own weight, pity, I don’t want to be alone.  
  
He returns at last, a glass of alcohol in his hand. As soon as he sees me, in this position of real torture, he finally reacts.  
  
"Oh no..."  
  
He rushes to detach me.  
  
"Oh, thank you, god, thank you ... Go slowly, it's risky ...  
-What?  
-If I lose consciousness, call an ambulance. "  
  
He is extremely slow in his movements, as slow as he was quick to hurt me. He rubs my arms to circulate the blood, but I feel them still numb.  
  
"Take me to the hospital.  
-Of course."  
  
He carries me like a bride up to her car parked downstairs. The porter looks at us strangely, but I do not care.  
  
He apologizes all the way. In the end, I can not even hear what he says to me, and I cut him off.  
  
"Artie.  
-Yes, Paul? What can I do?  
-I'll be fine, you know. The doctors are good, the ropes have just made a bag. Nothing insurmountable." I am surprised to be able to formulate all these words." And at the very end ... We'll be together on a parkbench, of course. "  
  
It is about that moment that I lose consciousness. When I get back, someone holds my hand. I feel it, so it's okay.  
  
I can even feel it's Art's hands.  
  



	7. First take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/134169.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M (no sex but Deathfic okay?)  
>  **Summary:** Roy couldn't know. (OK this isn't a summary)  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.  
> Dedicated to Sarah who read the first version (which was really bad) and NOFRITARI because our discussion made me get up early to rewrite the text and translate it. SORRY NOT SORRY

The secretary enters the studio with a strange little smile. She smiles often, that's not the question, but here it looks more like mockery.  
"Mr. Halee, we're asking you on the phone."  
  
Well, that's rare. Maybe my wife? I hope nothing bad happens. In general, the artists don’t contact me directly, they just say to the secretary assigned to the recording studios, when they would like to work with me, and she arranges with my schedule and the availability of the rooms.  
  
I apologize to the Journey (here's a promising band!).  
"It's good Roy, we'll test some riffs, we'll wait for you."  
  
I go out to the office with a phone. The phone is waiting for me, placed on the agenda of the recording rooms.  
At the end of the line, a voice recognizable among all.  
"Hey, Roy!  
-Artie? "  
We finished the recording sessions of his album last week. I'm so glad he wanted to continue working with me, as in the good old days, even after his quarrel with Paul.  
Paul even ended up coming to record some strings. It was fun to see.  
  
"I'm happy to have you on the phone, I did not think the secretary would take me seriously ..."  
I look behind me. She is having a coffee machine in the hallway.  
"Ok. What can I do for you?  
-You are free this afternoon?  
-Eeer ... "I check my watch." Yes, I record the Journey until 1PM. They are rather in the morning, they can not do anything good after the meal.  
-Oh that's good. There is a free studio, so? "  
  
Now I have to do the job of the secretary. Artie really did not need me for that, she could do it! I open the agenda as of today.  
"Well, there is one free between 1PM ... and 5PM.This is a little short.  
-This is only for a song. We'll pick up the arrangements later, but we need to record it. "  
I block the room by writing Garfunkel's name and mine, then, I realize. "And you have musicians?  
-Paul comes. "  
  
With a terrible joy, I note, for the first time in a long time, our three names in the same time slot.  
  
  
When I leave the Journey studio with 10 minutes late, I cross the hallway with such rapidity that I do not even take the time to greet the people I meet. I open the door, and there they are!  
Paul is already behind the window tuning his guitar, and Artie adjusts the mixer in my own way. I thank him for it.  
  
"Oh it's nothing, it's normal, the sessions that hang around ... It's going well with them?  
-Oh, yes, they are nice guys.  
-Have you eaten, at least?"  
Paul come back in the technical part to greet me.  
  
"No, but isn't...  
-What? You must eat, if you have to hold until 5 pm ... What we will do is ... "  
That's it, Paul took control of the operations. Typically him. I take a look at Artie, but he does’n’t look annoyed, in fact, he looks rather ... melancholy? I didn’t notice that on entering.  
"... That way, while we're tuning in and out, you can go out and eat, and after you come back, we listen to the recording and think about what it can become.  
-Ok, I'll fix that. Put yourself behind the window. "  
  
They hit me in the back each in turn before leaving the technical part. Something heavy hits my hip, and I turn to Artie. I look at the pockets of his jacket, and in a split second, I see a _revolver_.  
When they are behind the glass, I look to see if I'm right, but the mixer is too high. I only see the top of their bodies.  
  
They don’t position themselves as for the recording of _Mary was an only child_ , but as before, when they were still _Simon & Garfunkel_.  
I have pretty little adjustment to do. Without wanting to brag, Artie had a good teacher and he has already very well set the mixer. I ask them to harmonize to check and I put on my helmet.  
  
I saturate here, I'm increasing the volume there. Here. Perfect.  
  
"Ok guys, I'm going to start recording and I'm going to get myself a sandwich.  
-Thank you Roy! Do not hurry, especially. How long on the band?  
-I would say 40 minutes.  
-It's perfect! Right away!"  
  
  
I quickly go down to the mess to grab a sandwich and a little beer. From there, I meet colleagues (mostly prods, they tend to eat late too). The discussion follows his course, until one of them turns on me.  
"Well, that must have hurt you this morning!"  
What is he talking about? This morning I showed up at 7AM at the studio, I did not hang out on the way. I did not even listen to the news, that is to say.  
"What, didn’t you read the newspaper?"  
  
He hands me a number of the _Enquirer_. Even if I had the time, I'm not used to reading this paper ... In the main title spread the most infamous truth that is.  
Oh, pity, I knew it for ages. It wasn’t worth throwing that in the newspaper. Suddenly, I remember the little smile of the secretary. She must have laughed out of Artie when she got him on the phone.  
I imagine that Artie did not even piss off and preferred to ask me.  
The worst is the picture. Oh, yes, they kiss each other. It's an old photo, and, considering the places and their costumes, I think it was taken at Paul's wedding ...  
  
Peggy is really going to be furious. She probably is already.  
  
I open to the specified pages. Other pics. A long and particularly bad article, evoking the "special loves" of "the ex-duo", but also the rumors that they would have returned to the studio together ... "After the break, a new honeymoon?"  
I feel nauseous. For a moment, I remember the revolver in the jacket pocket of Art. Didn't he feel safe enough to go out without? I dare not imagine the looks in the street and the remarks theyve received.  
  
Why did they decide, on a whim, to come to record today? Paul probably didn’t want to stay at home. A studio is soundproofed, it's closed, it's the best place to hide.  
I slam the newspaper and balance it on the table, before finishing off my beer. I have to go back there. Especially now, I'm sure I know what song they record. I want to sublimate it and make it absolutely unforgettable, and for that, they will need me...  
  
It's a good story to beat them up, everyone.  
  
  
  
I enter the technical room. The band is still spinning, but no trace of my two friends. They had to take a little air on the roof, I suppose.  
Face the eyes.  
I stop the recorder and decide to pass the sound directly, to already isolate what there is to do. As soon as they come back, we will discuss it.  
  
First, they finish harmonizing. Then Paul plays some chords.  
"Yeah, that's good.  
-It's played enough just for both of us. We know her. We try in one take?”  
  
Paul's voice tries to be assured, but I hear like a crack.  
  
"Ok. By the way ... Seems like Roy doesn’t know.  
-Yeah." His voice is very cold.  
The melody begins. I had guessed right. It's that song.  
  
Producers have always refused it. It will still be denied, in fact, but they record it for the beauty of the gesture.  
At the end of the song, I have no words to describe it. Nobody will want it. There are full of metaphors, but they are very clear. The world is not ready for this song.  
  
That song is too beautiful for them.  
  
I'm already thinking of small adjustments to bring to the sound. They will be minimal, she is already so pure ... At the same time, I listen to the recorded conversation.  
"It was really good, I think we can be content with this first take.  
-I think so. "  
Ah, so that's all? Weird that they didn’t think to stop recording. But the conversation takes a strange turn.  
  
"I can’t do that.  
-It's you who took it, Art. I am ready. It was my testament, this song.  
-Me too..." there is a silence." I mean I don’t think I would be able to aim. Do it yourself."  
My breath stays in suspension. To aim? What are they talking about? I hear the sound of a kiss. Mechanically, I look away, but there is nothing to see, anyway.  
  
"No...  
-Please."  
A silence.  
  
"Hold on." He hears Paul get closer to the microphone. "I’m sorry Roy, it was not ... well, you'll understand ... Harper ... Harper ... you will not understand ... Roy, please, cut that piece of tape and give it to Harper when he gets older.” A silence. “Harper… I love you my son, you are the most beautiful star that has traveled my skies, I’m really sorry to inflict this on you. "  
  
Another silence.  
  
"Well, I trust you Roy. It's good, we can go."  
  
He moves away. I hope to hear the sound of a door slamming, but no. Paul speaks again a few seconds later, a little further from the microphone, but I can still hear it clearly.  
"Give it to me."  
The sound of a weapon being prepared. I take my face in my hands, totally petrified. I wish I could plug my ears, but I must know.  
  
"Don’t be afraid."  
It’s the voice of Art, more posed than earlier. She is caressing. This is the voice he only takes for Paul.  
  
"Easy. I'll meet you soon." A last kiss. A detonation. Nobody had to hear it, with the soundproof walls of the studio.  
  
I hear someone mumble something like "it tastes like powder" and a second bang sounds. Then silence.  
  
I'm waiting a few minutes. I pray that the voices rise again from the soundtrack, that it was only a bad joke, but nothing comes. I finally get up from my chair and bypasses the mixer to go behind the window.  
  
From the other side, I couldn’t have seen the ground.  
  
Paul still has his revolver in his hand, but it is the back of his skull that has disappeared into a mass of blood. That such a brilliant spirit is broken in a thousand pieces, it makes me turn my head.  
  
Art has a red flower that blossoms on his chest. Paul had to aim for the heart.  
  
  



	8. No interest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/135159.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:** An alternative universe where Art is not really interested in sex.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

"It's great to be able to try this kind of thing together."  
It's a beautiful weather outside. I hear children playing softball in the neighborhood, and if I bend over the open window, I'll see them. But Paul and I are in his room, working on our homework (officially) and kissing (unofficially).  
  
"It's true." That's all I can answer. I'm not interested in girls, and Paul especially wants to train to know how to kiss them after. I like to kiss Paul, but it is limited to a simple pleasant feeling, without ulterior motive. Except that he begins to have some ulterior motives.  
  
"By the way, I didn’t tell you ..." he scowls. "We'll have more time to sing from next week, I got fired from the team.  
-What?" I don’t understand. Paul is a good player, he is fast, he is skilled ... What can go through the head of the coach?  
"It seems like I'm too small."  
I let out a good curse. What an idiot, this coach. "It's really stupid."  
He shrugs. "Well, anyway ... I would train more often on the guitar, I would sing more often with you, I'm going to spend more time with you."  
  
I don’t realize the significance of his words until I turn my gaze on him. His cheeks are red, and suddenly I blush too.  
  
  
  
We continue to kiss often, and we even have a little ritual: a kiss before going on stage. It does not go further until university.  
  
We only see each other on weekends, and I feel that Paul has changed. He tells me about the girls he attends, and what he does with her. I listen without much interest.  
  
I don’t see it coming at all. One Sunday, he joins me in the room I occupy at the university to repeat. The dorms are empty, our music does not bother anyone, and we sing until we're fed up.  
  
I lie on my bed to decompress a little. Even before I can realize it, it is above me and kiss me in a rather unusual way. Looks like he's hungry. I grab his shoulders to move him away.  
"What are you doing?  
-Oh, well, I thought ... you know. We have been kissing for so long, it would be nice to try a little more. Have you ever done it with a girl? "He slammed it out.  
  
"Uh ...  
-I do. It's really cool. I want to do that with you. "  
And even before I answer, he unbuttons my shirt.  
  
Ah, this is the moment of truth. When I hear other men talking about their desires, I wonder what it is. I also feel that Paul is excited against me, but this feeling does not win me.  
  
It's frustrating. I like Paul. In the sense, I'm crazy in love. I would like him to be always there, near me, until we end up becoming dust again... I would like his rare smile to be engraved forever in the back of my pupils... I want him either to me and look no one else.  
  
But I don’t want anything else. What he's doing gives me no feeling. That does not reach me. I still decide to let him do it. We never know.  
  
"Artie?  
-Yes?  
-It doesn’t please you?"  
  
What to answer so as not to offend him?  
  
"Actually, it doesn’t do much to me."  
  
He was kissing my chest. I felt his wet lips on my nipples. Was it drooling?  
  
"Ah, um, and what could make you happy?"  
  
Above all, don’t tell him to stop drooling on me.  
  
"I don’t know?  
-Good, we'll try something. "  
  
He moves his hands to my zipper. I push him away immediately.  
  
"No.  
-No?  
-No.  
-Okay." He drops the cloth and shows his hands, as if to capitulate. "It doesn’t matter. I thought ... it doesn’t matter.  
-What did you think?" In spite of myself, my question is aggressive.  
"That you were in love with me."  
  
My throat is tight.  
  
"But ... I'm in love with you.  
-How? But then, why don’t you want to? "Simple question, complicated answer.  
"I ... don’t understand what interests you in this." I try in vain to express how I feel. "What interests everyone, in fact.  
-You never wanted to be ... like that with someone?  
-Like what?"  
  
He pinches his nose, as if to think of the words to use.  
  
"Sex, Artie, I'm talking about sex.  
-I don’t care."  
He is speechless.  
"Okay, that's okay." The conversation seems closed for now. I'm still trying something.  
"Paul, do you want to be like that with me?  
-Yes.  
-You love me, then?  
-Obviously. You doubted it? "  
  
(At the time, would I have had to give in to keep him close to me forever? But he stayed, no matter what, I thought that was fine.)  
  
  
  
Regularly, Paul tries. One evening, I explain to him that my biggest happiness is to sing with him, and that what I feel in his moments exceeds everything. And that it is very likely that sex will never interest me.  
  
"Okay Artie, so we'll record an album together, if that's what gives you pleasure."  
It's a wonderful failure. He fled to England and finds arms more welcoming.  
I do not even blame him (and Kathy is great!), But I miss singing with him.  
  
  
  
When success knocks on our door, it comes back to me. I'm right: singing together is so much better than sex. This is the case for me, but maybe for him too. That's what I come to expect.  
I don’t stop him from seeing girls. One day, I dare to ask him ...  
"And the boys?  
-That is to say?  
-Well, you say you love me, and that you would have liked ... Does that mean you love boys too?  
-Oh, not really. I am heterosexual with a Garfunkelsexual tendency, and since I cannot realize this inclination, I will never touch a man. "  
I laugh softly at the joke. I act as if I don’t hear the frustration in his voice.  
  
  
The frustration ended up drowning us. He may promise to love me forever, whatever happens, when I go away (I need it, I can not bear his eyes full of a desire that I do not understand), he makes me a crisis of terrible jealousy. To the point of marrying her girlfriend of the moment, Peggy.  
  
Well, Peggy doesn’t like me very much.. She does everything to get him up against me, and it works. He doesn’t even want to sing with me anymore. I am angry, a terrible anger, against him and against myself. I cannot give him what he wants, he will look for it elsewhere, what can I do against it?  
  
I cannot force myself. Even for him.  
  
He promised me something when he wrote Bookends. That when the desire of the youth had passed, he would come to end his life near me. I can’t believe that promise anymore. He would not let woman and child fall for an old egoist.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ten years go by as in a dream. A empty dream. We have reconciled, but nothing is as before. After the concert of Central Park, we go together on tour...  
It ends badly. He takes my fist in the face because he has tried a little too much. He was a little too drunk.  
  
Aborted, the common album project. Still years of silences. Meeting. Other silences.  
  
  
When our 70s comes, I try to remind him with a poem that time passes, that none of us is eternal and that if he intends to keep his promise, it's a bit of a moment. The message receives no response. Maybe it was too subtle? Or was he embarrassed that it was in face of the public?  
  
  
  
  
  
He divorced some time later. He doesn’t contact me.  
  
The months pass again. I sometimes hear news from Harper who calls me from time to time. He told me that his father was preparing a new album (good for him).  
Maybe it's me who sinks into bitterness.  
  
Should I give in? The question will haunt me all my life, it seems.  
  
One summer evening, there is a ring at my doorbell. I have been living alone for so long, death has already come to take so many friends that visits are rare.  
  
It's him, of course. I had been waiting for this visit for so long that I no longer hoped for it.  
  
"Did you listen to the news?" He gives me that in a very tense way. Without adding anything else, when we have not spoken for so long.  
"Hello, Paul, it's nice to see you ... and it's nice to bring Champagne.  
-Do not open it right away. So, did you hear?  
-I do not know what you're talking about?  
-You do not doubt why I come?”  
  
The waltz of questions surprises us like a game of ping-pong. It looks like a conversation that resumes after a long time.  
  
I let him in.  
  
"A long time ago, I promised you to spend the end of my life with you, right?  
-Uh...  
-That's it. The desire is over, i’m single, and the Supreme Court has just allowed gay marriage. Do you want to marry me?"  
  
I take the bottle of champagne and blow the cap.


	9. In the flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/135414.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:** There are no bombs falling but... Do I have to go get you in the heart of the flames?  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

The sky is burning! A gigantic cloud of smoke covers Manhattan. Later, we will see pictures in the newspapers of that day. There is a photo taken on the 59th Street Bridge, and i’ts not groovy at all.  
It's a coincidence, actually. I don’t often go to the business district, but here I am. I guess fate makes me there. What should I think about first?  
  
The logic is that I should ask myself if Edie and the kids are safe. I think about it after that, actually.  
  
  
  
All I manage to get out of my mind right now is a memory. A screaming siren, a bustling classroom, and a bunch of teens rushing to the exit.  
My hand trying to take Art's, but…  
  
In the schoolyard, we are told that this is a simple exercise, in case a bombing should happen. As if we were not already worried enough... At the time, the threat of a new war was heavier than ever. I managed to find Art in the crowd, and he frowned. I know he wants to show that he feels brave and concerned, but that he is stressed, actually.  
"I'm sorry Artie, I tried to stay with you, but ..."  
His smile is sweet. He does not blame me at all, and at this moment, I finally breathe. "You were swept away by the crowd, at least we both went out."  
  
What can I say to Artie (my entire universe at this point in my life)? I don’t even think. It comes straight out of my heart, without filter.  
"You know, If they ever drop the bomb, I'll find you in the flames."  
I serve my hand around his arm, as if I never want to let him go again.  
  
  
  
My hand is empty, and I run in the opposite direction. It's ridiculous. I had to go around Manhattan and go straight home, tell Edie that everything was fine ... So why am I heading to his apartment? But when it rains papers, bits of molten metal, and bodies, I guess the mind can not be quite rational.  
  
It was what? bombs? I don't think so, but maybe it's war anyway.  
I know where he lives, even though I've never been there. I just want to make sure he's fine.  
I don't look behind me and I rush into the lobby of his building. There is dust so far. When it finally opens, I mechanically touch the mezuzah while formulating a prayer for those who are dead today. He lets me in without a word.  
  
I sit (or rather, I collapse) in his sofa.  
"Paul, you're covered with dust.  
-Can i use the phone? "  
He shows it to me in a corner in his living room. I dial my own number.  
The conversation is fast. Edie is so happy to hear me, she was so scared. She orders me to stay where I am until the police say it's all right. Apparently, it is better to stay at home, according to the authorities. She tells me to look at the information.  
I think I'm going to take a shower instead.  
  
When I hang up, Art come back from the balcony. He shook my jacket.  
"I'm glad you're fine," he says.  
"Me too ... I mean ..."  
He has the same sweet smile that there is... it seems to me to be a century.  
"It would not have been easier to go straight to your house, it's not the same direction, and the road was not blocked...  
"I came to make sure I didn’t have to go back to get you out of the flames."  
  
His laught cleans everything: the dust, the smoke in the sky, the deafening noise of a screaming city. I don't even need a shower anymore. Instead of the water, it is his arms that run over me and hug me tightly against him.  
  
Today, the world has changed, I imagine that we have changed century at this time. But there are things that don't change. Whatever the century, I am where I should be. It's enough for me.


	10. Intertwined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/135621.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:** It's an rendez-vous that Paul doesn't want to go to.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

"You'll outlast me, you live more carefully." and blah blah blah. Bullshit.  
  
I walking down the street. I was given an hour and an address. Queensboro Bridge, our bridge. What a bad joke. Your children have to say it's a good idea.  
  
I could have gone there by taxi.  
  
This bridge, I have often borrowed. It separated our neighborhood from the rest of the city, and it's as if the world was opening when we crossed it. As if the world was so much bigger than our little neighborhood.  
  
Make detours. I don't want to go there. What's the point, anyway? We have not spoken for years. And it is not in this state that you will pronounce a single word. And I do not see what I could say.  
  
There is nothing to say. Our life has been long, we have already said everything.  
  
We thought we loved each other. It was true. We thought we would be together all our lives. It was lies.  
  
I am not very good at eternal promises. You have come to understand it, and to accommodate you.  
  
I hope.  
  
Do you regret, Art? It seems that you want to talk to me. It's frustrating, I would never know what you have to say to me. Nonsense, as usual. Like what we should get along with.So, why is it to you that I speak in my mind?  
  
Too late.  
  
I'm arriving late. I see all your family gathered on the bridge. It's finish. Too bad, people will say that I didn't come.  
  
James raises something above the water. I know what it is. He opens it and pours his container into the wind.  
  
My eyes sting. It's probably dust. The wind carries it towards me, I breathe a little.  
  
It's a last joke, huh? What's the point? Make me uncomfortable?  
  
Do you want to come back to me?The last dust sticks to my face, trapped by the few tears that have flowed. Even tears become scarce with time.  
  
I hear a laugh. I turn around, thinking it's you.  
  
It's the wind. He jokes on us.


	11. Parenthesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/135753.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M (another deathfic)  
>  **Summary:** Harper attends the greatest concert of all time.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

Artie is almost done singing. He insisted so much on getting his own solo song that Daddy accepted.  
  
It must be said that it is appropriate. At Heart in New York, it's really this huge crowd that stretches out in front of the Central Park scene.  
  
Dad turns to wink at me, he's about to join him on stage. It's a totally crazy night. Just before returning, he slaps my shoulder.  
  
"It was worth going to bed late tonight, Harper?" tease my stepmother.  
  
"Oh yes, yes!"  
  
My laughter joins his. Art gives way to Daddy on stage, but, strangely, he lingers a bit, not knowing too well or putting himself. He doesn't go down the stairs completely, just watching. He must be ready to jump to join him at the next song.  
  
I know dad is happy of course, but Art is really on a little cloud. This can be seen. People said that children understand feelings better because they have no filters, but that's something I have never lost. (Still today, I know how to recognize love in someone's eyes when I see it.)  
  
Art's eyes are like that when he looks at my father right now. It doesn't shock me. Many people look at Paul Simon like that, but this is really, very deep.  
  
I know this look forever. If adults find it normal, it is that it is. (Actually, now, I find it heartbreaking.)  
  
Sudden agitation. I stand on tiptoe to see better. Dad stopped singing.  
  
The body of Art unfolds like a spring, and it leaps on stage to block the road to ... a guy. I feel Carrie freeze against me, and these few seconds seem to centuries. There are no security guards. (I still wonder what happened at this level, how this guy managed to get on stage like this ... But, well, we can't go back.)  
  
The man shouted something and he has a revolver in his hand. My father has backed away, and he is hiding behind his guitar. Art restrains the guy and has to use both hands to hold his arm up.  
  
I turn my head towards the monitors of the technical team. All cameramen are frozen on this point. Art has a lot of trouble, despite its size, to retain the madman. Suddenly, I notice a detail.  
  
“A KNIFE!" I screamed at the scene, hoping that my father's friend heard me.  
  
He can't hear me. The knife is already planted.  
  
The musicians are just starting to leave their instruments to help, but it's too late. The knife lacerated him several times. (8 times. I counted.)  
  
I finally see my father. He plunged to support Art as it collapsed. The arm that held the revolver was free.  
  
In reality, it only lasted a fraction of a second.  
  
(Actually, I don't really remember that clearly, I don't know how to separate what I've seen from filmed footage that I watched in a loop ... A sadistic classmate had given me a copy of the concert on VHS, directly recorded on TV.)  
  
I am one of the first on stage. Right after, Carrie tries to pull me back to stop me from seeing.  
  
(Watching repeatedly your father having his brain exploded is an idiotic idea. When you're a teenager, you have ideas that are stupid, but that makes sense.)  
  
Art was still breathing.  
  
I didn't follow in the ambulance. To tell the truth, I found myself alone behind the scenes. Finally, it was George who found me, stuck between two boxes of audio equipment.  
  
"Hey.  
-Hey.  
-It's really bad. This is the second time I see a little boy become an orphan in such a short time.  
-Yeah. "  
  
When John Lennon died, George came home. I have not often seen men crying. My father, for example, I have never seen him crying, so I guess I would never see him crying. But George has the ability to cry.  
  
It's a good ability.  
  
"Harper?  
-Yeah? "I dry my tears and try to hide them.  
  
"Don't worry, it's okay to cry, it has to come out, not to cry makes you even more unhappy."  
  
So I cry.  
  
  
  
When my mother finally picks me up, I ask to go to the hospital.  
  
"Itsn’t good, listen, your daddy is ...  
-HE IS DEAD! I KNOW!"  
  
I just learned in one evening that I could cry, and also that I could scream.  
  
"Is Art all right?  
-I had your mother-in-law on the phone. It seems that the doctors managed to keep him alive. "  
  
  
  
Nobody wants to take me to the hospital. Even when I ask Carrie. It seems that this is not a place for children. Innocently, I ask him for George's number.  
  
"Hu, do you want to ring Harrison?  
-I want to say thank you for keeping me company that night. "  
  
It was a disguised rebuke about the fact that no one had stayed to take care of me. I hope the message is clear. The next day, she gives me the number.  
  
  
I'm waiting for my mother to go out to solve some problems with the burial to dial her number.  
  
"Harrison, I'm listening.  
-George? It's Harper.  
-Oh, boy! Are you OK?  
-No, it's not ok. I don't know how is Art. "  
  
A silence at the end of the line.  
  
"I don't know him very well, maybe he's your father's best friend, but I don't have much contact with Garfunkel.  
-Do you want to accompany me to go see him?  
-Eh ... okay? When?  
-Now!"  
  
He couldn't refuse me. (I'll find out later that we don't want a lot of young orphans.)  
  
He's picking me up by car down the building. The hospital is far away. I would have difficulties to getting there alone.  
  
From there, no problem to find Art. He is lying in a big white room, he is himself very pale and seems lost in the middle of his white sheets.  
  
There are tubes and wires everywhere. Even in his throat.  
  
"Hey, Art.  
-H ... er.  
-I am sorry I didn't come sooner.  
-W... Re... Aul '? "  
  
  
He tries to speak, but his tracheotomy prevents him. I'm not stupid. Children are not stupid. I suspect that if you have a hole in your throat, he can't speak anymore, so ... sing ... George comes behind me.  
  
"Do you want something, Garfunkel?  
-'Aul. W... re... Aul '?  
-I think he wants to talk about your father.  
  
His whole body is stretched out, as if waiting for something. He reacted when George was talking about dad.  
  
Was he warned?  
  
"Artie, do you know that… daddy is dead?”  
  
His eyes widen in horror.  
  
(I killed him in one sentence.)  
  
"Well, it looks like he didn't know, maybe you have things to tell him, I'm waiting for you outside."  
  
When George is gone, Art lets out a long silent sob. It's atrocious. I wish he didn't have the ability to cry, like dad.  
  
"H ... er."  
  
He finally calms down.  
  
"Yes, Artie?"  
  
He nods and painfully raises a hand to put it on my shoulder. It means "it'll be ok, you can go."  
  
So I go there.  
  
I was told the next morning that Art had to be admitted to ICU during the night, but the doctors couldn't do anything.  
  
(I was really taken for an idiot, I know very well that he did it on purpose.)  
  
  
  
I hear my grandmother chatting with Art's mother. Burial, again.  
  
"You’re so complicated," I tell them. "They were the best friends, do one burial, put them in the same grave.  
-HARPER! Respect them, please! "  
  
But it's respect. They would certainly have been very happy to share the same grave.  
  
It seems that couples are buried together, and nobody wanted them to be buried that way.  
  
Over the years, I have talked to many people. Roy, who liked them, George who being a good friend...  
  
Carrie, who always knew it. Even when she was no longer my stepmother, she had remained my ally. She had also proposed that they share the same grave.  
  
It was a silly secret. That's why yesterday I repaired this injustice. I invited everyone to inaugurate a statue.  
  
There is a very beautiful picture that I often watch, on my VHS of the concert in Central Park. They stand next to each other, each with their arms behind each other ... Perfectly symmetrical and yet so different.  
  
When they were in the same room, it looked like their center of gravity was different. That he depended on the position of the other. If one of them moved, the other too. If one of them got closer, the other too. They had trouble staying away from each other.  
  
This statue reflects that. The truth is there, cast in bronze, in the heart of Central Park. Should we still see the truth?  
  
Most people just watch it. It is good too.


	12. Ride in the countryside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> [Original post](https://goovythinggoin.livejournal.com/136493.html)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M (questionable consent)  
>  **Summary:** Paul wants to go home quickly after a concert.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

  
At the end of the show, Art tied a light scarf around his neck to avoid getting cold. He wondered why Paul absolutely wanted to return to London on a scooter after their performance - they were at least 45 miles away, it would take hours. Why wouldn’t he get a hotel room?  
  
When he asked Paul, Paul had answered with a smile:  
  
"I want to see Kathy again tonight and wake up with her in the morning."  
  
Art thanked a timely cloud that came to hide the moon at this moment. Without light, he did not have to force himself to smile.  
  
They had already completed almost half the journey. They were now crossing the green belt around London, and Art marveled at the beauty of the landscape. Paul was concentrating on the road.  
  
The taller clung to the smaller boy's chest, and when he tightened his grip, he felt his friend tense.  
  
It made him dizzy. He wanted to get off this scooter, get some air...  
  
  
He undid the scarf. It flew away and landed in a nearby wheat field.  
  
"Paul, stop, my scarf is..."  
  
The pilot parked the scooter on a strip of grass a little further up the road. Art could feel his eyes following him as he crossed the field… but it gave him plenty of time to breathe.  
  
A few months ago, they were happy in New York. They did shows, they made a failed record, they made love in hotels, they smoked in Paul's car. It was perfect. What could have changed Paul?  
  
A small voice in Art's mind whispered things about Kathy. He shook his head quickly. It had been only two weeks since he had come to join Paul. Kathy was adorable, Art already loved her.  
  
He caressed the scarf of late cashmere. It was Paul who had given it to him for his birthday two years ago.  
  
Finally, he returned to the scooter. Paul took the opportunity to light a cigarette and stared intently at him.  
  
"It's good, we can go,” Art said.  
  
“Hold on!"  
  
Paul reached for him and grabbed his arm. His grip was firm, determined. He carried him to the thickets, but Art would have let himself be carried away anywhere.  
  
It had been months since they had made love, and Paul was… well, more abrupt than usual. His gestures betrayed a certain impatience. He wanted to take Art quickly, have his pleasure quickly and get back quickly. At first, Art felt like he was excited by him, and he was happy… but soon it turned into fear and pain.Paul did not ask. He was taking.  
  
They came back to the road all disheveled. There was hay in Art's hair, and Paul rose on tiptoe to remove it with a wave of his hand. He took good care not make eye contact with the taller boy.  
  
"It was you who wanted it, you asked me to stop the scooter,” Paul said.  
  
“It's because my scarf…” the other boy replied, wiping a few tears.  
  
"Why do you react that way? You wanted it, I gave it to you."  
  
He adjusted his tie and got on the scooter.  
  
"Let's go. Kathy is going to worry,” Paul said.  
  
“Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well after posting this text at the time, I saw a film from one of Marcel Pagnol's play, "La fille du puisatier", and I realized that a scene in particular had scored so much that she almost came out copy/paste unconscious in this fic. I am deeply sorry, I make my mea culpa.


	13. Only Undead Boys in New York (unfinished)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> Unpublished (just shared with the Citizens)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Summary:  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.**

The moon illuminates my steps. It is abnormally dark, I mean, it's London, nevertheless, with a well-organized public lighting. Why do I have to trust the pale light of the moon on a night like this?

The moon. It must be the same on the other side of the Atlantic, right?

I accelerate the pace. This must be an electric shutdown. I quickly decide to retrace my steps - Kathy's apartment is closer to here. It should not disturb her if I come in the middle of the night ...

The concert was a success. I love being on stage and the audience was receptive. And then I gained a comfortable seal, which is not negligible.

I sing along the fence that borders one of the many public parks in the town. A shadow melts on me and everything disappears - the moon, the sound of the night.

I wake up very conscious of what is happening. There is someone, something above me. He's eating me. He has huge fangs. It's not a dog.

I don’t have the strength to shout. At the corner of the street, I hear a group of student soaked in alcohol.

The noise scares him, and the thing runs away.

I get up, pushed by an uncontrollable force, I grabbed my guitar which had fallen to the ground and I fled in the opposite direction.

"Paul!" Kathy is scared, I must say that my shirt is torn and there is blood everywhere. She insists on taking me to the hospital, but I refuse. I want to see first ...

I should not have so much energy. The beast ripped me off the ribs and gnawed at them. He ate me part of my right shoulder, too. That's why the hype of my guitar is shredded.

But in front of the ice, only wounds. Not nice to see, but not as bad as I thought.

I'm asking Kathy for bandages and medical alcohol.

The next day, only thin white scars can attest to what happened. Kathy is worried.

"Well, it's very good that you're less injured than expected, but ..." She touched my chest. "It's still missing ribs, it's not natural, have you ever heard of the Werewolf?"

Of course, but I reject the idea firmly. There’s no such thing.

Thank God, she believes in it, and locks me in her room at night. She slides a wardrobe in front of the door.

When we discover the room ravaged in the early morning, all I can say to him is that I would buy a bed.

Days and weeks go by. I scan the moon, and Kathy offers me a gardener's book - which obviously contains a very complete lunar calendar.

She is so considerate, even more so when we were in a relationship. It's been some time since she understood that I was hiding the sadness of an irresolute love behind a mask that I hoped would be less limpid. She had everything analyzed. She is a smart girl. A few weeks before the Wolf incident, we were eating ice cream as we walked, and she had simply asked me if it was about Art.

Obviously. Everything is about Art. The valves had opened, and I told him everything: our past friendship, our complicity ...

The way he had been courting me for years, finally turning away from me for some time ...

For months, he was running away. Only the music seemed to be related to me, so I played music. Written for him.

God, I gave him an album. I made him understand that I agreed, that I loved him ... He had hoped so much, and I had seen no change in his attitude.

So, before I saw him running away, I took my fool pride and ran away first.

Kathy was understanding. My lover is gay? ok, it's my best friend now. My best friend is a Werewolf? Ok, after all the girls know what it is to be indisposed one week a month.

I stayed a few months with her ...

Until Art calls me. His voice is not seductive, but there is panic and excitement.

I take a look at my gardener's book. No full moon before two weeks. It's good, Art will help me lock myself up. I'm sure I can trust him. I buy my return tickets and kiss my dear Kathy on the cheek.

"You see, he's the one who wants you.

-It's the success that calls me, not him.

-Be a little more confident."

And London was moving away in the mist. Seen from the plane, everything was so small. For once I could see things from above ...

In recent times, I am more resistant. My miraculous healing after the werewolf attack was obviously a clue, but overall, I heal faster, I'm also stronger. My senses are sharpened to the extreme. I used to play tricks on Kathy silently arriving behind her back, while I could feel her coming from the street. It was a clever mix of noises, smells (especially smells), air movements ...

What a power! What an advantage compared to normal humans! It is as if one discovers the sight having been blind all one's life. But this is inconvenient. I feel the emotions of people, and sometimes these emotions displease me. The insincerity. The fear. It stinks.

Kerosene stinks too. I think I will avoid flying again soon. How awful.

I warned Art, but I did not expect him to wait for me to arrive. It had been a long time since I had not seen him smile and ...

And its smell is foul. Wait, why does he smell that way? I approach and I see him frowning in his turn.

Our eyes meet. I read there surprise. He must read the same thing at home, because he pulls me a little outside the passenger crowd. "Quick, to the car, we have to talk."

I follow him, restraining myself from carrying my hand to my nose to block my sense of smell. In the confined cabin of the car, I thought it would be worse, but I must already be getting used to it.

We drive without speaking for a few kilometers. He rolls quietly enough, puts the radio.

Our song breaks the silence. Without a bad joke. After listening to him, he must feel more courageous, because he finally dares to ask me the question.

"What happened in London so that you come back transformed into a Werewolf?

-How do you...

-You smell wet dog for miles. God, to say that your smell was the most delicious of all North America, what a pity."

I sigh. "Well, I'm answering your questions, but afterwards, you'll explain why you smell so bad." And I tell him everything since the famous night of the Wolf.

He listens without saying anything. After my explanation, he rubs his face, as if to wake up from a bad dream. "And what are you going to do?

-I was going to announce it to you nicely and ask you to help me lock me in the moonlit night." I look to him, will he do it? he didn’t like the fact that I have become a monster, even if he seems to be one himself.

He responds in a breath. "Of course I'll help you, I'll never let you down."

The emotion takes my throat. "What happened to you?

-Almost the same kind of mishap as you. It was on the campus of the university, and it was a Vampire. He would have left me drained of blood if he had not been disturbed. So he left me with this curse. "

A shiver of fear runs down my spine. It's even worse than I feared.

"But then ... Do you drink the blood of people?

-Do you eat people one week a month?

-No!"

His smile looks tired.

"It's not as simple as it sounds ... Technically, I'm not more tied to the need for blood than you are to meat, I'm immortal, I can do without blood . " To explain it seems painful. "But I have less energy, less strength, like a perpetual anemia. And the desire is very, very powerful. And permanent. This is not just a few nights a month ...

-What can I do to help you? I have energy to spare since my transformation. You can drink my blood.

-It would be toxic to me. And I have never cracked, and I do not want to get used to the taste of blood." He closes his hands on the wheel. "I've always tried not to hurt you. You were so delicious.

-That's why you were running away from me?"

He burst out laughing without joy. "Did you notice?

-Obviously. I was... helpless. I fled on my side to heal my heartache."

He can not blush, of course, but he has that expression.

"We're here, huh? Two only undead boys in New York. In love, but incompatible.

-You still love me? I thought you loved me before all that, and then I thought I was wrong.

-I desire you so much, I was afraid to destroy you. Singing was my only refuge. When I sing with you, I concentrate on our voices, it allows me to forget your throbbing jugular vein."

I don’t know what to answer to that. I think silently as we ride on the bridge that leads into Queens. I replay the conversation in my head.

"Do you really think we are incompatible?

-There is a kind of ritual hatred between Vampire and Werewolf in the Shadows world, Paul.

-There is a Shadows world?

-I would take you there.

-It must be because of the smell. Yours is atrocious.

-And yours seems boorish to me.

-But we get used to it. Art, I only think about you for months. It's not a smell that will stop me.

"But will you be with me for hundreds years?"

The moon forms a crescent in the sky. Hundreds years… It’s thousands of full moons. Art's arms are even thinner than I remember, and I cannot wait to get to his apartment and take it all against me.

"Yes."


	14. My place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my S&G stories are dedicated to the Citizens for Boysenberry Jam.  
> Unpublished (just shared with the Citizens)  
>  **Author:** UndergroundWall [lulu_joy]  
>  **Pairing:** Paul/Art  
>  **Rating:** M (TW: Suicide, murder, automutilation)  
>  **Summary:** Paul is going to make a mistake. Art wants to stop him, of course.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sorry for my bad english. Feel free to correct me. True Simon & Garfunkel have nothing to do with this story.

Someone's knocking at the door. At first some polite little strokes, then, they intensify. I don't want to see anyone, I don't want to answer anyone, you can all fuck off.

"Paul?"

This voice. Choked, through the wood of the door of my apartment. The last voice I want to hear today.

"Paul, I beg you, let me in."

He bothers me. I was preparing something. I finally open the door, and he rushes into the apartment.

"Thank you." He is silent immediately. He saw. His eyes barely detach from what stands in the middle of the living room, but he manages to immediately dive into mine. I decide to speak before him.

"You know that Carrie has filed for divorce. We will remember us as the shortest couple in the history of show-business.

-A year is not enough.

-Yes, sure."

I pretended to look busy and I fled to the kitchen. He doesn't follow me, and I take the opportunity to move some things. I go through the room, I tidy up a little. I want to erase the traces of my ex-wife as soon as possible.

When I return to the living room, he has settled on the sofa, and he looks at the chair that came to replace the coffee table, and the rope hanging from the metal beam.

"What happened to you, Paul?

-Oh, bad things. I'll put this aside.

-I thought instead that you would choose to throw yourself in the void, or gas ...

I'm pale. "Both are pretty dangerous for others, if the building explodes because of me, if I crash on a poor walker, I don't like that idea.

-Hum. Yes, I recognize you there. "

Her unsteady smile annoys me. "Well, what are you coming for? See if there's anything left to recover from my broken heart? I know you, you did that after Kathy, after Peggy ...

-No. I came because of that."

He throws a letter to me. I recognize Carrie's writing. I read quickly what she wrote: she worries about my reaction, she got all the drugs from the apartment before leaving (Ah, that's why I did not find them) but she all the same scared for me.

"The good joke, if she worried, she'd have to think before she ran away, and what cruelty she scared you... She talking about Laurie in the letter."

Touch! He doesn't answer anything anymore. After a long silence, his voice is reborn, tight, affected. "Don't do that to me, I’m not strong enough to relive that."

I close my eyes and rub my face. No, of course he’s not.

And I know myself I would survive this divorce, like all the others. Without doubt with the help of Art. He knows how to console me. And then there will be another girl, and I'll leave him, again.

Until the day I cannot resist him at all, and he will imprisoning me forever. That scares me. I don't want that. Why can’t I completely detach myself from him?

I would almost hate him. But just look down on our two joined hands to feel some comfort. An idea born in my mind...

"So, my friend ..." my voice was lower. I charged him with promises and implied. It's almost fun to spot subtle changes in Art's posture. He leaned closer to me, his shoulders are more tense, his mouth is ajar. He's waiting for me to continue. That I give him what he wants most.

The sweetest lips. I kiss him by surprise, I take him unprepared. He's used to having to turn around a lot longer before I give in.

Look, Artie ... It's me who sets the tone. Look, I understand your shenanigans, and I'm ready to play with you.

He deepens the kiss. It's going faster, faster than usual, and I'm still accelerating the pace. It is I who take the initiative to undo the first buttons of his shirt. Suddenly, he grabbed my wrists between his big hands to stop me.

"What's the matter?" I don't have as much control in my voice.

"I feel uncomfortable with ..." His eyes roll toward the lonely chair and the rope.

"I'm not going to take it off now! I promise you to take care of it tomorrow.

-So, we are the ones who moving. "

He jumps to his feet and lifts me up by putting one arm under my knees and the other grabbing my shoulders. He's wobbling under my weight.

"Uh ... we're really old enough to do that, Art.

-Let me do..."

He stumbled to the bedroom. The sheets are cool under my skin when I fall on the bed. I hear him breathing deeply several times.

When he has recovered his breath, he joins me. Our actions, we have done them a thousand times. His body, I know him by heart. The time we made love every day is nevertheless very far, we have matured both, and I discover with pleasure some small changes.

He is no longer so fine, but his skin is softer, and as I am surprised, he is less sure of himself than formerly. It's old, it's new, it's Art and me, our two skins that merge into one another ...

I always try to forget how good it is, how much I am ashamed to love it.

Very quickly, we are naked, and already well excited both. I know how it will end, but I want to stay in control a little bit, so I find myself astride him. I see in his eyes that I still catch him, and I cannot help but make him a charming smile.

"Looks like you're just waiting for that.

-Don't be so presumptuous ..." I put my fingers on his lips, "Take me instead of talking."

His hands go down my back. Since I'm kneeling, legs spread on either side of his body, he has no trouble finding the way. He slips a finger first, I barely wince. The second wakes me up a bit, and I begin to move the hips in rhythm. With his other hand, he caresses my body, going from my buttocks to my thighs.

"And say that you usually don't know what to do with your hands ..."

The joke doesn't seem to please him, and it is a bit rude by pressing a third finger and pinching the skin of my thighs.

"Ouch ...

-You, on the other hand, you don't know how to use them if you don't have ropes under the fingers... "

I decide to prove him that he’s wrong. I bend a little forward to put on his chest, and in response to his teasing, I come to pinch her nipples so sensitive.

"Stop, I don't like it!

-Oh really?

-You know it well. You naughty... "

He pulls out his fingers and uses both hands to press me against him. He got up half, and my chest rests on his. Sitting on him, I feel a little bigger. He raises my buttocks and I feel he positions me to enter. I unconsciously bite my lower lip while trying to relax.

Gravity does the rest. I let myself slip very slowly around him, until I feel it completely inside me. I stay a few moments.

"It’s ..." I gag her lips with mine. I get up a little bit to go down again immediately. My back and forth accelerate, and I start to tear a few moans. I cannot stop myself from making little cries every time I feel it sink to come tease my prostate ...

Forces are beginning to fail me, pleasure comes parasitize the rest. He realizes it and regains control. That's exactly the problem: at the slightest weakness on my part, he possesses me completely.

My dripping back lands on the sheets. Art lifts my legs and the rhythm starts again. I forget a few moments to the crazy pleasure and forbidden that only him can offer me.

He comes after me, and has the delicacy to retire before. I let him clean us with a few handkerchiefs and I open my arms so that he knows he can come and curl up if he wishes.

That doesn't fail, obviously. He puts his head against my chest, and I lock him in my arms a few moments. I savor this fleeting pleasure. It can't last forever.

Our bodies take up familiar positions. We don't speak for several minutes, and finally it's me who have the head in the hollow of his neck, the hand resting on his heart.

It's a rhythm that obsesses me, his heart. The rhythm has become, over the years, the basis of my compositions. I have never stopped trying to reproduce faithfully this deep and tender beat that I feel at this moment under my fingers.

Here I am the prisoner. Again. No. I swore to myself that this time, I would be free forever.

From the moment he passed the door of my apartment, I knew it would end on this bed. I prepared that. I have only to withdraw my hand from his chest, turn around, and take what I slipped into the drawer near my bed.

I look at it for a few moments. He smiles, and supports my gaze dreamily. He could not be happier than at this moment, could he?

This moment when he won, or he owns me. Each time, it is a victory that brings him closer and closer to the outcome of this war he hopes glorious...

I send him a bitter smile. He frowns slightly, but he is still too deep in the mists that follow love to react to my quick and precise gesture.

It only took one movement to grab the kitchen knife, and a second more to turn around and aim for the exact spot where my hand was laid in the previous instant.

His eyes become surprised, but his smile doesn't leave his lips. I thought that sort of death would be instantaneous. Apparently not. He remains conscious for a few seconds before fainting. He just has time to pronounce my name, and ... I think I hear a "I love you" whispered.

He stops breathing very soon after his loss of consciousness. I don't recover until long after all the blood has finished staining the sheets.

I leave the knife where it is. I'm just picking up a few things that are lying around - I get dressed, fold his clothes cleanly, throw out the paper tissues. I look for the last time the spectacle of the room. It's beautiful.

He seems to be sleeping on the bed, and he is really more beautiful than he has ever been. His blond hair is lit by the light of the late afternoon. As the sun is red, the blood is barely noticeable. I breathe deeply, and I feel free like ... oh, I cannot remember a moment of freedom like this.

I go in front of the mirror in the entrance and comb my hair. I smile at my reflection. A calm smile.

Here I am in the living room. I put things in their place, the coat of Art at the rack, the letter of Carrie in the trash.

It is time that I too take my place. On a chair.


End file.
